Country of the Blind
by WriteToLive
Summary: Javert is always failing, and no one ever punishes him for it. He does not understand why.


_Toulon, 1815_

'Ah, Javert. Come on in. No need to stand on ceremony.'

He stands on ceremony anyway. Thierry does not look surprised.

'I won't take up too much of your time. I simply need-'

'I know why I am here, sir.'

'Oh?'

'Indeed. There are three on my watch due for parole. I will save you some time, sir. 47593 has shown consistently good behaviour in his six years here. He is not a dangerous man. 24601 has fought, and attempted escape numerous times in the past, but not for many years. We may not see him again. Still, he is dangerous. 39482 is lucky to have survived his two years at all. He will pose no threat physically in the outside world, though obviously should be watched to make sure he does not try forgery again.'

Thierry is smiling. Javert does not smile back, but allows a moment of satisfaction anyway.

'24601, then. You believe, perhaps, we should test him? If he is dangerous, he may yet act in such a way as to extend his sentence. It would keep the people outside of here safe.'

'No, sir.' He does not have to think about this. 'It would not be just. He has served his time. He should have the yellow passport, no question. But to encourage him to misbehave, simply to keep him locked up – this is not a true use of the law.'

A laugh, this time. 'Javert, you never change.'

'I should hope not, sir.'

'Very well. Your recommendations are noted. You may go.'

A bow, and a swift exit. Javert does not dwell on such meetings, beyond a brief flash of pleasure that his recommendations are always followed. He has never yet been wrong.

'Javert. Come in.'

'Sir.'

There are no men to be paroled. He dare dream that this meeting is for some better reason. Not that his work as an adjutant-guard is unsatisfying; no, not a bit of it. But for a year, he has been contemplating the police. A good recommendation is essential, and he asked it of Thierry over a month ago.

'Just a bit of news, that is all.'

'Sir.' He does not smile, but something behind his ribcage tightens, and starts to grow warm in anticipation.

'Oh, that prisoner we released. 24601. It is believed he has robbed again. A bishop.'

Heat turns to cold, all over his body. '…sir?'

'It is to be expected. These men, they never learn. There was just some talk among us in the office – how you said we would not see him again. 'That Javert was wrong! We will see the convict again after all!' – I think all of us were glad we do not make bets on your recommendations.' _Any more_, he thinks, but does not say. It has been disallowed by those on high. Still, the smile on his lips dies as he watches Javert's face. It is white, and his eyes are…well, it is always impossible to read those eyes. But more so, today. 'Come now, it is only sport. It is not why I have called you to me. This is the reason.'

Javert watches him pull a letter from the desk drawer. His fingers are twisted together behind his back, so tight they hurt.

'You are offered a position with the police, as you requested. We shall be sorry to see you go, but it is quite understandable that you-'

'No.' The abruptness of the word seems to startle Thierry. Javert does not know why it should. 'No, thank you, sir. I have…I have reconsidered.'

'Reconsidered? When? And…why, Javert? Is this not what you have wanted?'

He cannot lie. He has always been incapable. 'Yes. But now, I think, perhaps I should wait. I would spend another…let us say a year, here, if you will allow it.'

Thierry is silent for a long time, examining him from under his bushy eyebrows. His whiskers twitch in consternation, the letter still not laid fully on the desk. 'We spoke last week, and you made no mention of having had second thoughts. I have acted on your behalf in good faith, monsieur.'

'And I am grateful, sir. You have always been good to me. I would repay that, and any mistakes I have made, with another year in your service. If you allow it.'

He has never been able to fathom this man. Not even when he was a boy. Especially not then, perhaps. 'If it is what you wish, Javert, I will not stand in your way.'

'It is what I wish. Thank you, sir. May I leave?'

'By all means.'

Thierry watches the door for a good minute when he is left alone. No, he will not stand in Javert's way. The man does a good enough job of that himself.

###

_Montreuil-sur-Mer, 1823_

'I must insist you cast me out, monsieur. I have made an egregious slight against your person. I, an officer of the law, have dared defame the good name of a gentleman, a magistrate! No, monsieur. It cannot stand.'

'And yet, I say it will. The insult is against I, and I alone. It is mine to do with as I wish.'

He does not understand. Not that Madeleine is not acting as he should – the man has rarely acted as he should. But for a man so attuned to the needs of others, he is strangely blind to the need he, Javert, has to hear the right words. _Yes, you are infamous. You are a blackguard. You are removed from your position_. Only they will suffice. Only they will restore balance, and clear the debt from his person. Without them, the world tilts dangerously, and he will be the one left owing. He cannot bear it.

But no one understands this.

'Monsieur, I beg you-'

'Do not. You have no need to beg anything of anyone. You are a man of honour, Inspector, and I esteem you. You exaggerate your fault. Let us talk of this no more.'

Madeleine has rounded his desk, and stands only half an arm's length away. He could touch him, if he dared. Take his arm, beseech him to make this right. But the man is deaf to the proper way of justice. He looks at him now as if he is a man speaking another language; as if he, Javert, is the one who makes no sense.

'Please, monsieur-'

'No. I will not be swayed. The fault concerns me, and I tell you, I may do as I will with it.'

The mayor is touching his coat. He is squeezing his wrist. He shuts his eyes, and prays for the man to take his damned mercy away. 'But-'

'_No._ No more, Inspector. Return to your post, please. But wait, you say you must go to Arras?'

He fumbles through the explanation of why he must leave in a matter of hours. Madeleine does not seem to be listening, but he cannot make himself stop. There is an edge of hysteria in his mind, and speaking helps soothe it away. He stops only when the mayor steps closer, and he feels the light touch of fingers at his jaw.

'Monsieur?'

The hazel eyes are unreadable. Or perhaps they are sad. Some emotion that he cannot decipher. 'Apologies, Javert.' The hand drops away. 'Please. Do as you must. Your job will be waiting when you return.'

He leaves, then. The injustice of it sits uneasily under his skin, an itch he cannot scratch. He has always prided himself on having worked his way through life alone, but is it the truth? He has this need for things to be right, and it is a need dependant on others to play their part. But they are always so unwilling, as if they do not understand the rules.

He does not understand it, and it is weight he is starting to feel. Something so clear, but, it seems, for his eyes only.

###

_Paris,1824_

'Inspector Javert. You are here early. Come in. Monsieur Chabouillet has just arrived. I will tell him you are waiting.'

He nods, too ashamed to feel weary, too full of failure to be anything but resigned to the inevitable. He waits without counting the passage of time. He does not sit. His eyes fix on the floor, until his name is called.

'Javert.' Chabouillet is a large man, bearded and leather-skinned, with whiskers broader than his face. He is a walrus behind a desk, wearing a smile of welcome. 'Rumour has it you've been out all night, on the chase. Yes, do not look so surprised. I keep an eye on you still. You have news then, eh? Let us have it, man. Coffee?'

'No, thank you, sir.'

'You look like you need it, but ah well. Come, then.'

He refuses the invitation to sit with a quiet demurral. He never sits during these admissions. And there seem to be so many of them. 'I have come to report failure, sir. My own failure. You must be made aware of it.'

'Oh?' The secretary's black eyes, usually twinkling in their bed of rolling fat, take on a cooler air. 'Well then, make haste. I would hear of a failure of yours, man. We need some proof of you, eh?'

He does not understand what he means by this, but it is of no importance. 'I had a man in my grasp, and let him slip. I requisitioned soldiers, I had men posted, I had an area sealed – and still, a thief escaped.'

'…well, what are you saying? You cannot catch them all, Javert. Wily bastards, you know? Surely you do not manage to catch every miscreant the instant you lay eyes on him?'

'Alas, no. But this one-' he takes a breath, and squares his shoulders, though he does not raise his eyes. 'You remember the convict that caused my attachment to Paris, monsieur? The one you engaged me to apprehend?'

'And so you did. Valjean, was it not? Dead now, I understand.'

'He is not dead. It is he I failed to catch last night.'

These admissions get caught in his memory by their spaces of silence. There is another one now; always after his confession, as if no one can think at the same time as talk. As if quiet, for some reason, is necessary to process, and fully comprehend, his shortcomings. It is uncomfortable, but he bears them. It is a hint of punishment in itself.

'You had better explain, Javert.'

'Jean Valjean is alive, sir. I had my suspicions aroused by news of a stranger in Montfermeil. He had collected a child – the child of a the woman, Fantine, whose bedside Valjean was at when I arrested him in Montreuil. He had asked for time to collect this child, which I refused. I investigated, but concluded it was not he. But since my arrival in Paris, I had heard rumours of a 'beggar who gave alms' – it was so like the behaviour of Valjean in Montreuil, I investigated this too. I took a room in his lodging house. I disguised myself as a beggar on the street. I saw him. It is he. It is Valjean. Last evening, I lay in wait with three other officers as he attempted to escape his house. He had the girl with him. We closed in…I thought we had him contained. But, he disappeared.'

There is more silence. He cannot bear it. Chabouillet seems confused, but is listening, so he presses on.

'It is my fault. If I had acted sooner, we would have him. If I had not taken so long to be sure, we would have him. We have searched all night – some men are still searching – but there is no trace. I do not know how he escaped, but I know I am at fault. Sir, you must do with me as you see fit.'

And yet, more silence.

Then, a laugh. It is what other people might deem a 'good' laugh – deep and resonant, causing the man's belly to shake. Javert thins his lips, and waits for it to be over.

'Do with you as I see fit? Good Lord, Javert. What would you have me do?'

'It is not for me to speculate, monsieur. I am in your hands.'

His mentor sighs, and picks up his cup of coffee. The china is incongruous in his hand; a silverfish in the paw of a great beast. 'When you first came here, you told me a story, did you not? Of how you had told this Valjean, this imposter, to remove you from your post. Are you so eager then, Javert, to leave the police? You know you may resign at any time.'

'I am not eager, sir. Not at all.'

'Then, why?'

'Why I asked him to remove me?'

'No. Well, yes. But more – why you are asking the same thing of me now. Oh, do not look so chagrined. We both know that is what you expect.'

'Sir-'

A wave of the hand, which causes a drop of coffee to be lost over the side. He sets the thing down, so delicate in his movements that not a sound is made when it meets the saucer. 'So, you are saying to me – you investigated. You had suspicions, and you followed them. You disguised yourself. You asked questions. You commandeered guards, you took chase. All for the sake of a man the world believes to be dead.'

Javert forces himself not to wince, and nods, his gaze once more on the carpet in front of his feet. 'Yes, monsieur.' Chabouillet is rising, heaving his bulk from his leather chair. Javert listens, but does not look. 'And I apologise for my laxity. I was too proud, and I-'

A hand lands on his shoulder. He is a tall man, but even his leg bends a little under it. 'Javert, look at me.'

He follows the order, because he cannot _not_.

'Inspector Javert…you will be Prefect before I am in my grave, or I will eat my head. With my hat on it.'

It is ridiculous, of course. He thinks this later, in his apartment, having been ordered to take the day off to sleep. A man of his background could never be Prefect. Chabouillet knows it as well as he. But he cannot deny it was a direct way of making his point. He had received no punishment, unless this day off counts as such. He is not sure the man believes that Valjean is alive – there had been a murmur of 'years have passed' and the way appearances change, and the darkness of the night. It does not matter. He had retorted that either way, a man had been chased and not been caught. If it had not been Valjean, he would have let him go, of course. But at least he would be sure. He is sure now, though. It was Valjean; there can be no doubt. But the secretary had not seemed to gain the point. That he had set out to catch a man, that he had laid his best trap, and that man had writhed free. That if his failure is not addressed, he is once more in debt to the justice of his conscience.

But, no. His conscience is of no concern to anyone else. Chabouillet had laughed, _laughed_, when he had suggested, with some desperation, that at least the failure should be marked on his record. He had been given coffee he did not want, and ordered to rest for the day.

This is not justice. He paces his apartment from wall to wall, until mid-afternoon comes, and his tired legs force him to stop. So he falls to his knees by the bed, and pulls a box from underneath it instead. The handle of the scourge is almost unfamiliar, it has been so long. And, if he is honest, so infrequently used. But there it is. If others cannot let him pay the debt, he must do it himself. Even though the penance will only be felt by him, and seen by no other – well, it is better than none at all. Sometimes, a blood payment is required. And Javert must have balance. The world is not right without it.

###

_Paris, 1832_

And so, it has come to this.

He leans on the parapet, his fingers twisted into his whiskers. The letter is written, and he can – no, will not - take it back. His thoughts have been flying apart all day; they scatter like birds on pieces of string, lunging for freedom but caught, reeled in every now and again, only to evade him at the last and flutter away once more. They tangle, come apart, swoop in circles; they do not return. If they would settle, he might be able to order them. But, no.

He does not think as he steps onto the wall. His legs are weary, aching from the night spent on his knees. But they are long, and healthy enough; it is no effort to take the penultimate step of his life. He stands still, and cast his eyes down once more. This time, there is no carpet to mumble his apologies to. There is only the abyss. He quails, as weak men do, but he can no more move back from it than he can walk into the new world of mercy that blooms from the wood of his heart.

He has thought, and thought, and thought. But in the end, it comes down, as it always has, to punishment. No longer does he consider his life. No, he considers what they will think of him when they find him. The feared Inspector Javert, ending himself. They will call him a coward. A hypocrite. Perhaps a traitor. Yes – but that is what he is, is he not? He is a traitor to justice. He has walked in the path of her sightless eyes, and come up against a wall. Unlike some, he is not so handy at scaling them. And he does not want to.

They will call him mad. They will shake their heads, and if there was ever any respect for him, it will be lost forever. He will slip from their minds, only to be recalled as Javert, who was too weak to face his punishment.

He closes his eyes. And smiles.

Yes. Let that be their memory of him. For a failing as great as this, it is the only way to make payment. They will find his body. It will be dragged out for all to see, still in its uniform. They will stand around, and handle it, and when its name is known they will shake their heads. _Some madman_.

Yes.

It is more than just. It is equilibrium restored, it is the world set to rights. At the last, as ever, he is a man who will settle his own debt to existence.

He takes his final step. The scales will balance. All is well.


End file.
